Listen Up Ya Meatballs!
This week, it's all about the legendary meatball parm sub.
Happy Thursday, jabronis. Yes, I know the newsletter is late this week. I apologize for the “inconvenience,” although I doubt any of you truly care or even noticed at all. But us Virgos hold ourselves to a very high standard, so rest assured, when the newsletter didn’t go out on Tuesday when it was supposed to, I felt bad for a good five minutes before moving on with my life.
Anywayyyyy after a very fun trip to Detroit, I was supposed to head back to California, but I somehow found myself BACK in New Jersey, because I’m chaotic and enjoy living life on the edge. More importantly, my dear mother offered me a job working at City Green, an urban farming and food justice non-profit, for the rest of the summer. And as much as I detest toiling in the fields during the dog days of summer, I simply could not turn down gainful employment after several long months of not working a real job.
You see, the entire media industry is in the shitter right now. There have been 17k layoffs in media just this year, the highest number on record. Podcasts - my bread and butter - are doing even worse. Some of the most talented reporters and producers I know are out of a job right now. Not to mention we’re in the midst of the largest strike in Hollywood history. And food blogs? Fuhgeddaboudit! There’s literally no rational reason for me to spend as much time as I do writing this newsletter, apart from the significant amount of joy it brings to my life.
Luckily for me, people still need to eat food. Even more lucky, I have a family who can employ me. That’s called white, red, and green privilege, my friend. Color me grateful to be pulling weeds and peddling fresh vegetables for a whole month. Have I been complaining to everyone I know about going from staring at a screen in an air-conditioned room to doing hard manual labor, hauling mulch and hacking down mugwort? No sir, not me, no complaining here!
It helps that City Green is located in Clifton, which may just be the most Jersey town in the state. It’s a highly-diverse blue collar town that’s densely populated with authentic pizza, bagels, diners, and delis. It’s one of those towns that feels like it hasn’t really changed since the 60s. Lucky for you, my dear readers, there is no better place to write about East Coast comfort food.
So there I was, out there in the fields, at 1pm on a Tuesday, sweating my little pistachios off, when an enormous wave of hunger swept over me. A hunger so ravenous that nothing could possibly sate my workingman’s appetite except for a proper meatball parmesan sub.
The meatball parm, along with its little cousin the chicken parm, is a mainstay here in the Tri-State. You can find one at any pizza parlor worth its garlic salt. It will generally be about the size of your forearm and cost between $8-12. And when the craving hits, nothing else will satisfy. So off I went in the company truck, dirt splashing out the back, in search of a proper meatball parm.
I was in luck - the closest pizzeria happened to be the legendary Mario’s. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Mario’s? Come on Sam, there’s gotta be at least 500 Mario’s Pizzerias in New Jersey.”
To which I say: “Fuck you, you racist fuck! Mario’s is the best, don’t you ever forget it!”
The reason I love this Mario’s - the one on Van Houten Avenue in Clifton - is because it’s the location of the annual Papa family Christmas party. Papa is my mother’s maiden name, and represents the Italian side of our family. Every year around Christmas, about 60 of us get together to hug and kiss and try to remember each others names and definitely not say anything political around our racist uncle Al (who sadly passed away last summer, RIP Uncle Al!).
I have very fond memories of Mario’s. Like getting hopped up on Coca Cola with my cousins and sprinting around the restaurant like we owned the place. Or yanking the fake beard off our cousin R.C. when he put on the moth-bitten Santa costume to give presents to the little ones.
These are the images that flooded into my mind, as I sauntered into the restaurant smelling like compost and rubbing my belly like a Buddha.
I ordered one meatball parm to go ($11), and took a seat on a bench to observe the bric-a-brac on the wall. They had this place lookin’ like a guido Applebees.
I guess when you’ve been around since 1945, you accumulate a lot of signs. My favorite was a menu from the 60s. Check this shit out.
$1.20 for spaghetti with meatballs, can you imagine? Adjusted for inflation, that’s still only $12 in today’s money. What a bargain!
And meatballs is precisely what we’re here to chat about.
The meatball is arguably the most famous Italian food there is, aside from pizza. In addition to being a food item, it’s also what your grandpa calls you when he grabs you in you in a headlock and gives you a noogie.
Despite their simplicity, meatballs are actually quite difficult to make. First you have to season the ground beef, ideally with fresh herbs and sometimes chopped garlic. Then you sear them in a hot pan to give them some crisp. Or, you might not do this step, dealer’s choice. Finally, you finish them off in the oven, baking them for the perfect amount of time at the perfect level of heat to cook them through without drying them out. It actually takes a good deal of prep work and skill to make proper meatballs, which is why they are elevated - in my mind - above the simpler American hamburger. Any goomba can slap one of those on the grill. But to craft a good meatball takes talent.
You can serve these babies with spaghetti, obviously, but that would be too heavy for the middle of the day. So we go with an entire loaf of bread instead. Why not?
The beauty of the meatball parm sub is that it’s the simplest of sandwiches, comprised of just four ingredients: bread, meatballs, marinara sauce, and cheese (mozzarella with an obligatory sprinkle of parmesan on top).
One time I tried to order a chicken parmesan sub at a sandwich shop in Marin County. Granted, I should have known better, but they had it on the menu so I couldn’t resist. “Would you like lettuce, tomato, and mayo on that?” the girl behind the counter asked.
“NO, you fucking idiot, it’s a chicken parm!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. Just kidding, I would never yell at a service worker. But I did think that sentence, before promptly canceling my order and walking out in a huff never to return again.
Just the memory of this experience makes my blood boil. I take a deep breath and try to relax, giving thanks to Mother Mary that I am not in Marin, but at Mario’s. A minute later, my sandwich arrived wrapped in tinfoil, and my lunch break was almost over, so I hustled back to the farm to enjoy it.
Now I’ll admit, this is not the most photogenic of sandwiches. That’s because the very best meatballs are rather soft and breakdown quickly. They truly melt in your mouth, and that’s exactly what I experienced with this excellent offering from Mario’s.
These meatballs were delicately formed and bursting with salty moisture. Speaking of salty moisture, the way the sauce soaks into the fresh Italian bread is simply divine. The marinara sauce was sweet, acidic, and strongly evocative of summer. Enhancing the entire experience was the fact that I ate this bad boy while surrounded by a bounty of incredibly high quality tomatoes grown right here at the farm, by my very own fratello, Henry.
Yes, tomato season is upon us. Very soon we will be boiling those babies down to make our own sauce, and hopefully canning lots of them to enjoy for the rest of the year. But for now, I am more than satisfied with Mario’s.
If I were to critique this sandwich at all, I would probably say something about the portion size. It’s so damn big that just half will leave you full. But because of the aforementioned sauce and bread combo, you really can’t save it for later (it’ll get mushy). Needless to say, I consumed the entire thing in one sitting, just in time to get back to work and open up our farmer’s market for the afternoon.
I guess this farming life ain’t too bad.
West Coast: 10
East Coast: 9
And by the way, if you are on the East Coast, come say hello! I’ll be slinging veggies on Wednesday afternoons (4-6) and Friday mornings (2-4) at the City Green Farm Eco-Center in Clifton (171 Grove Street). This produce is truly the dankest you can find, and I’m not just saying that cuz it’s grown by my fam.
